Ann Quin

APR-MAY 2003 | Fiction

Not that I’ve dismissed the possibility my brother is dead. We have discussed what is possible, what is not. They say there’s every chance. No chance at all. Over a thousand displaced persons in these parts, perhaps more. So we move on. Towards. Away. Claiming another to take his place, as I place him in profile. Shapes suiting my fancy. Rooms with or without connecting doors. He watches when she isn’t around. A perverse protection he knows she needs.